Christmas Island A Christmas Poem by Katherine Lee BatesFringed with coral, floored with lava, Three-score leagues to south of Java, So is Christmas Island charted By geographers blind-hearted, — Just a dot, by their dull notion, On the burning Indian Ocean; Merely a refreshment station For the birds in long migration; Its pomegranates, custard-apples That the dancing sunshine dapples, Cocoanuts with milky hollows Only feast wing-weary swallows, Or the tropic fowl there dwelling. Don't believe a word they're telling. Christmas Island, though it seem land, Is a floating bit of dreamland. Gone adrift from childhood, planted By the winds with seeds enchanted, Seeds of candied plum and cherry: Here the Christmas Saints make merry.
Even saints must have vacation; So they chose from all creation, As a change from iceberg castles Hung with snow in loops and tassels, Christmas Island for a summer Residence. The earliest comer Is our own saint, none diviner, Santa Claus. His ocean-liner Is a sleigh that's scudding fast. Mistletoe climbs up the mast, And the sail, so full of caper, Is of tissue wrapping-paper. As he steers, he hums a carol, But instead of fur apparel Smudged with soot, he's spick and spandy In white linen, dear old dandy, With a Borealis sash on, And a palmleaf hat in fashion Wreathed about with holly berry. Welcome, Santa! Rest you merry!
Next, his chubby legs bestriding Such a Yule-log, who comes riding Overseas, the feast to dish up, But — aha! —- the boy's own bishop, Good St. Nicholas! and listen!" Out of Denmark old Jule-nissen, Kindly goblin, bend, rheumatic, In the milk-bowl set up attic For his Christmas cheer, comes bobbing Through the waves. He'll be hob-nobbing With Knecht Clobes, Dutchman true, Sailing in a wooden shoe. When the sunset gold enamels All the sea, three cloudy camels Bear the Kings with stately paces, Taking island for oases, While a star-boar brings Kriss Kringle. Singing Noël as they mingle, Drinking toasts in sunshine sherry, How the Christmas Saints make merry!
While a gray contralto pigeon Coos that loving is religion, How they laugh and how they rollick, How they fill the isle with frolic. Up the Christmas Trees they clamber, Lighting candles rose and amber, Till the sudden moonbeams glisten. Then all kneel but old Jule-nissen, Who, a heathen elf stiff-jointed, Dofts his nightcap, red and pointed; For within the moon's pale luster They behold bright figures cluster; Their adoring eyes look on a Silver-throned serene Madonna, With the Christ-Child, rosy sweeting, Smiling to their loyal greeting. Would that on this Holy Night We might share such blissful sight, — We might find a fairy ferry To that isle where saints make merry! Christmas Island |